


Household Gods

by Quietbang



Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Angsty Schmoop, Crime, Disability, DysFUNctional families, Gen, Harry What Are You Doing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Permanent Disability, Recovery, Reference to Past Non-Con, Torture, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Dresden comes back from the dead, finally (finally!) gets central heating, raises a child ineptly, and maybe, just maybe, gets a much-needed reality check. <br/>Or,<br/>The one in which Molly Thinks She Saves Harry and, in the process, Actually Saves Him.<br/>The one in Which Harry is Bad at Being a Single Parent.<br/>The one in which Murphy Saves the Day (again).<br/>and<br/>The one in which Marcone is both Sexy and Terrifying, often at the Same Time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Harry is Not Dead, and then things get complicated.

**Author's Note:**

> This is titled in my Google Doc as "The Gratuitous Fic of Wheelchairs and Healing". Born out of my annoyance at Butcher's and Harry's ableism (seriously, guys? Being disabled is worse than being dead? Srsly? Paralysis is worse than being a puppet for a chaotic neutral faerie? Srsly?), my desire for more Dresden Files friendship fic, and my strong conviction that both Harry and Maggie could really, really, use a hug. And some hot water.   
> Note that this fic contains references to canonical abuse, rape, non-consensual events, war, graphic violence, and pretty-damn-near canon PTSD. But apart from that, it's really quite fluffy.   
> This is complete in my GDoc, will be posting one chapter a day as I edit it.

The thing about death is: it isn't restful. 

I should know. I've done it twice, now. 

Maybe it'd be better if people didn't keep trying to bring me back, if I finally got to whatever the hell is on the other side of that train station, emphasis on the 'hell'. Lord knows I've seen too much bad in my life to delude myself into thinking I'd go to the other place. 

Point is, death isn't restful. It's a pause, a moment of surprise and grey slowness, and then-- well, based on my experience, then a couple of things happen. It hurts, and then it's done, and you're somewhere you never thought you'd be, surrounded by places and people that are almost but not quite like they ought to be. 

Except here, it wasn't fading. There was no sound of a train, no archangels-- in diguise or otherwise-- to make my acquaintance. Maybe I'd used that all up the last time. 

But the grey was receding, even as I noted it- replaced with a harsh, sharp, red and fire and pain, almost welcome after this long year of winter numbness, but agony nonetheless.   
Muted voices were beyond the pain, and when I opened my eyes- I hadn't realised they were closed- vague blurs that resolved themselves into a flushed pale face, its eyes cornflower blue and wide with desperation. 

"Murphy?" I attempted to say, but my lips wouldn't co-operate. That pain made me hazy, and what emerged was a vague "Mrphgg", weaker than a kitten's mewl. 

A cool hand brushed my hair off my forehead, and I could see that she had been crying. 

"It's okay, Harry," she said, her voice strangely choked. Had she had a cold or something? I tried to remember how she had seemed the last time I saw her, but time passes different in Faerie- for all I knew, ten years had passed for her. Besides, even if she had been sick, it's not something I'm likely to remember. When me and Murph get together, there tend to be much bigger monsters on the horizon- literally- than who has the sniffles. 

Tough girl, that Murphy. It's why I like her. That and she could kick my ass- I've always admired that in a woman. 

I tried to pursue that train of thought, but my thoughts felt heavy. If it weren't for the pain and the fact I hardly drank anymore, I'd say I was drunk. Not that that explained Murphy's concerned face. 

I groaned. I like to think it was an inquisitive groan. Or maybe Murph saw something in my eyes, because she smiled slightly, and continued running her small, calloused palm across my forehead. 

I must've looked pathetic, but I let it happen. It had been far too long since I had touched human skin. Even Molly didn't count, now--   
my brain shied away from that thought, and the sheer jolt of my consciousness was agony. 

"Dresden, shut up," Murphy ordered, her voice strangely gentle. "You're safe, alright? Don't-- don't try and move. You're not well."

She bit her lip, and to hell with it. Who was I to argue with the lady? Besides, I could feel my eyelids getting heavier. 

"How much longer?" Murphy asked. I tried to raise my eyebrows, but her face was turned away. I guess she wasn't talking to me.

There were more voices, now; but my eyes grew heavier, and the pain seemed to have been muffled in a deliciously human way by her comfort, like when I was a kid and I had whooping cough and Dad stayed up all night with me, rubbing mentholated camphor across my chest. 

I let my eyelids fall, and drifted off into darkness.   
\---  
The first thing I was aware of was that I was warm. The subtle weight of blankets lay across my chest, their heaviness a contrast to the airy duvets of Winter, and my closed eyelids were tinted a rosy lightness by the sun. 

I was comfortable. I hurt, yeah, but I'm used to hurt. My bones ached and my head spun, but-- as I discovered when I tried to lift an arm and felt a jolt of white-hot agony-- as long as I didn't move, the pain was vague and distant. 

Human medicine, then. I was sure of it. Faerie stuff wouldn't leave any of the pain, would remove it entirely so that you could get up and fight even on a broken leg never knowing any better until your dismally human frame nearly died of sepsis from wounds you'd forgotten you had. And yeah, I _am_ speaking from experience, why do you ask? 

Where was I? Not a hospital, that's for damn sure. If Murphy was real and not jus a figment of my imagination, she'd die before she let me anywhere near a proper hospital, even unconscious. I'm not gonna have more innocent lives on my hands, and Murph wouldn't give me the opportunity. It's why we're friends. 

Besides, I hadn't been in a hospital bed since the orphanage, when I had my appendix out-- Justin never felt the need, preferring to let my wounds fester awhile as a reminder not to make the mistake again before healing them himself with magic-- but I was pretty damn sure none of their beds felt like this. 

For a moment, I dared hope that I was in my apartment, that the last years had been a terrible dream brought on by too many beers or not enough greens or what have you, but again, I was warm. My apartment was never warm. The heater didn't last long enough.   
There was one way of settling this, of course. 

I opened my eyes, breaking through a thin crust of grit that had glued together my eyelids. 

I blinked. 

I blinked again. 

 

No change. The image before me didn't dissolve, didn't reform itself into something terrible. 

I breathed deeply, and instantly regretted it. 

When I had regained my equilibrium, I opened my Sight, and a tear dripped down my cheek. 

I was in Michael and Charity's spare bedroom. A thin plastic canula ran from my nose to an oxygen tank by the bed, it's gauge heavy and outdated. A long metal pole dangled bags of IV fluids and blood, flowing into my arm. A similar tube ran under the covers to my groin, and I blushed to think of who'd inserted it. 

I really, really hoped it wasn't Murphy. These were not the circumstances under which I had hoped to introduce her to my wizard's staff.

What? A guy's gotta have some entertainment. 

From across the room, I heard a soft intake of breath. I tensed, reminding myself that Michael's threshold was one of the strongest I'd ever seen, that if I was *really* here-- and my Sight had told me as much-- there was hardly anything that could hurt me, and in my weakened state anything that could pass through it would make mincemeat of me. I tried to relax, breathing as deeply as the pain would allow, and pushed away the will I had begun gathering without a second thought. 

I lay as still as possible as my heart returned to its normal pattern, allowing the slightly fizzy feeling adrenaline always gave me to dissapate. 

"Harry?" I heard, from the same direction as the breathing. With difficulty, I turned my head. 

Murphy sat in the corner, bruise-like purple shadows layered beneath her eyes. Her shirt was wrinkled, tight against her breasts, and stained brown with mud and blood and god knows what else. 

Curled up on her lap lay a girl not more than eight, her black hair curled around her face. 

Long lashes obscured her closed eyes, but I knew that were she awake, they wqould be an intellegent brown and shining like-- like Susan. 

Maggie. 

_Maggie_. 

 

"Murphy?" I tried to say, my voice cracking with exhaustion and hoarse with lack of use.   
Even so, the words set off an explosion of agony, and I had to close my eyes and wait a moment before I could hear her response. 

"...don't try to talk, you need some water, just a moment,"

A rustle, and then Murphy stood up, settling Maggie against the chair back as she did so, and walked around to me. A moment later, I felt a cold edge at my lips, and parted them to allow her to push in some ice chips. I rested, my eyes lightly closed, as she slowly fed me the cup. 

"... You're gonna be okay, Harry. Everyone's okay, you're at the Carpenters', everything's fine.."

"Murph?" I interrupted. "I got that. What I don't got is-- _why_?"

She paused, and her hand reached out to to rest on my arm. 

"Molly-- Molly killed you, Harry. She killed you, then she brought you here so we could save you. It was almost too late."

What? Molly? That didn't make any sense. Why would she--? Even if Mab had ordered her too, she would have told me, or found a way to save me, or-- or something. She wouldn't have just let me die. Not if I know my apprentice. 

_But do you know your apprentice?_ a treacherous voice whispered inside me. _You destroyed her. You destroyed her, and her relationship with her family, until she had nobody to turn to but you. Mab was right. You are her DuMorne._

I studiously ignored the voice. I had gotten into the habit, over the years. 

Murph must have seen some of this on my face, because she continued. 

"--She saved you, Harry. You're not the Winter Knight any more. You're-- you're free."

Her voice got soft around the last bit, like the words were too big to fit in her mouth in their entirity. I knew how she felt. 

"Free, huh?" I rasped. "Then why do I feel like shit?"

Her face fell, her mouth drawing into a worried line. "Harry, I--"

"Give it to me straight, doc," I ordered. She didn't smile. 

"When you were released from the mantle," she said slowly, "Everything that went along with the bargain left, too. No more winter magic, no more immunity to pain, no more--"

"--No more healing," I finished, my voice horrified. 

I couldn't feel my legs.


	2. In which a meal is eaten, and Charity is Too Good for This Shit.

Murphy left soon after that. I wanted to object, to tell her to stay, _please_ , just until things make sense again-- but a glance at her told I couldn't, even if I were willing to embarrass myself like that. The shadows beneath her eyes were more like bruises, and the light scattering of lines across her face were deep with worry and lack of sleep. 

I didn't say anything, but I was tired, and in pain. Probably my face wasn't as good at hiding things as it should be. Stupid meds. 

She paused next to my bed. "I don't have to go, you know." 

She frowned, moved her hand in a strange jerk towards my head, and betrayed the falsity of her words with a yawn. 

"Murph." I said, trying valiantly to inject stern confidence into my voice. I came out as a crack, instead, like a prepubescent boy who had just seen the teacher in a low-cut cardigan. "I'm fine. Go get some sleep. Stars and stones, it's not like I- like I'm going anywhere."

She snorted at that, and patted my arm. "You'll be fine, Dresden. Try and get some sleep."

I wanted to protest, say I'd done nothing _but_ sleep, but unconsciousness is not actually restful, and I was exhausted. Instead, my eyes flitted involuntarily to the armchair in the corner, where Maggie lay, her long limbs tangled like a colt.  
Murphy followed my gaze. 

"D'you want me to take her?" She asked dubiously. "Only I hate to wake her--"

"--No!" I interrupted, then winced at the harsh sound of my voice, too loud in the soft room. "No, no, leave her, it's fine."

She frowned, scrunching up her nose like a rabbit. On any other day, in any other life, I would have teased her about how cute it made her. But I was tired, and now that I'd noticed it, the numbness in my lower body was terrifying, too reminiscent of Winter and punishment and things I was most definitely Not Thinking About.  
I hadn't asked Murphy about it yet. I didn't want to know. Not until I was sure I wouldn't cry. 

 

Murph has seen me covered in blood, crazed with adrenaline and no sleep. She's seen me scraped and tired and furious and scared. She didn't need to see me cry, too. 

"I hate to leave her in that chair, she'll get a terrible crick in her neck. I don't suppose..." she trailed off, glancing significantly at the expanse of mattress and comforter next to me. 

I froze, too scared to speak. I _wanted_ that, in a painfully human way. I just didn't--

"S'not safe." I said, after a moment, the words catching painfully in my throat.  
Murphy snorted. "This is the safest room in the country right now. Hell, Harry, she's in no more danger in bed than she is three feet away."

I didn't know how to explain that it wasn't the outside world I was worried about. 

I nodded, instead. She quirked a small smile, and picked up Maggie, huffing slightly as she did so. Her hands were gentle, however, and she lay my daughter down on the bed without either of us making a sound. 

Her head was a good six inches away from mine, but even here I could smell that unmistakable _child_ smell, soap and shampoo and fresh air and something else, undefinable but irrefutably _there_. Her eyelids twitched, dark lashes emphasising the minute movements with a dramatic frame of black. Her black hair was like silk, tangled curls spilling across the white of the pillow.  
Involuntarily, I found myself reaching out to stroke her, to reassure myself that she was here, that this was happening, that I was _alive_ and she was _alive_ and Murph was _alive_ and Molly was--  
well. Not alive, maybe, but not dead either. Still human, if not mortal. It's an important distinction. 

She'd saved me, Murphy said. Given me back my free will, after I’d caused hers to be taken. 

I wondered what Mab would do when she found out, if she already knew. Who the Mantle had passed to- try as I might, I couldn't remember anything about my last day of consciousness. 

A shiver ran up my spine, and I cried out as a jolt of white-hot agony shot across my abdomen. I closed my eyes reflexively against the memories. 

 

_"Oh, my Knight," she said, her cats' eyes wide with anticipation and feigned confusion. "Why do you persist in disobeying me?"_

_I refrained from pointing out that I hadn't, at least not directly, that I _couldn't_. _

_"Didn't." I gritted out, and gasped as a million tiny icy hands clenched my-- well, you know. The staff, if you will._

_Point is, it hurt. It hurt worse than being shot, worse than being burned, worse than being fed on, worse than--. Anyway._

_"The Little Folk. I asked you to control them."_

_I wanted to roll my eyes. Right. Because controlling faeries always works out well. Especially for mortals. If fairy tales have taught me anything, it's that the Little Folk_ love _to be manipulated by mortals._

 _"They did as you asked, My Queen." The_ so did I _went unsaid._

_"Not out of loyalty, Knight. Not out of loyalty to me."_

_"They're Wyldfae. They_ have _no loyalty to you." The hands tightened, and there was a burst of light and then an agony as knives of ice began to flay the skin, their blades cauterizing even as they cut._

_I blacked out._

 

"Harry?"

My mouth tasted coppery, my tongue sore from where I bit down on it. 

"You were asleep," Charity said simply. "There was noise."

Oh. 

"I'm sorry, Charity--" I began to say, but she frowned and cut me off. 

"--Don't be ridiculous. After the last few days, I'm just happy to see you have a voice _left_."

I laughed. It hurt. 

I glanced to my left, but was greeted with the sight of rumpled covers and the ghost of a comforting warmth. 

"Maggie's having her bath," Charity said, correctly interpreting my stricken look. "She'll be in before bed to say goodnight. Now, how are you feeling?"

"Like He--ck," I said. "But I'm not dead."

She nodded and pressed her lips together. "Can you sit up for me?"

I tried, to no avail. She nodded again, and placed her warm hands beneath my armpits. 

"Now?"

I braced myself, and she pulled, and together I managed to get to a nearly upright position. 

"Well," she said brusquely. "Let's get some food into you, shall we?"

She pulled the chair closer to the bed, a tray balancing on the footboard. 

Reaching down, she set the whole thing on her knees. Steam drifted off it enticingly, and when I turned my head a little I could see that it was a bowl of some sort of cream soup and some bread, cut into small, bite-sized pieced. 

"Bread or soup?" She asked, busying herself with cutlery. 

"Charity, I can do it my--"

"No, you can't. Not yet anyway. Soon."

"Charity--"

She fixed me with a stern look. "You're a guest in my home, Mr Dresden. You've had an extremely difficult few weeks. You are welcome here, but you're _not_ to set back your recovery by refusing to accept help, do you understand me? You'll be back to yourself soon enough. For now, _let me help_."

I swallowed roughly, and nodded. 

She spooned some soup into my mouth, and my eyes closed slightly as the taste of leeks and potatoes burst across my tongue. 

When I opened my eyes, I saw Charity smiling at me. 

"It's good to have you back, Harry," she said, her voice pitched low. 

She fed me the remaining soup in silence. 

Finally, when she had scraped the last spoonful and I had dutifully swallowed, I gave voice to the question that had been plaguing me since I woke up. 

"How did I get here?"

She glanced up from the tray, where she had been buttering bread. 

"Molly." she said simply. 

"I don't--"

"She killed you. It was the only way for the Mantle to pass to another person. You had to die, and it couldn't be in the Nevernever-- Mab would know instantly, then, and she might find a way to prevent it. So she did it here, without telling anyone of her plans. You died, and Murphy saved you, restarted your heart and kept it beating long enough for us to get you to a doctor in Undertown who could treat wizards. He treated your injuries and operated on your spine, but it wasn't safe there. The Wyldfae brought you back to us. The equipment is rented."

My head was spinning from the information. Molly had-- she had saved me.

But at what price?

"Did she...” I trailed off, my voice hoarse. “Did she use magic?”

Charity was silent for a moment. When she spoke, it was slow and deliberate. “No,” she said. “She cut your throat.”  
Oh.  
I let that sink in. That was messy way to die, a messy way to kill- not half as graceful as you see in the movies. Please, for the love of all that is good, don’t ask me how I know that. 

In real life, cartilage is hard to cut through. 

It was messy, and brutal, and likely to fail. In other words, it was about as _human_ a way to kill as you could find. 

“Why here?”

This time, the silence was longer. Then, “I’ve been thinking about that. She didn’t want you to die, she told me as much. At the same time, the person who resuscitated you had to be mortal or it wouldn’t work-- the Mantle would have simply re-entered you as soon as you regained your life.”

The Mantle. I’d lost it. I was free. 

But wait--

“Charity,” I said again, my voice clogged with dread. “Who did it pass to?”

A sharp intake of breath greeted my question. 

“Daniel,” she said after a long pause. “It went to Daniel.”


	3. Chapter 3

Charity left after that, her face pinched tight with a damning compassion.

I didn't understand her. She invited me into her home, said that I was her guest, was feeding me and checking my medications-- and I had destroyed her family. Again. They do say that third time's the charm, after all. 

It didn’t make sense. It was Molly's doing, that much was clear, but--

I was tired. Nothing made sense. It felt a bit like when Susan left, when I ruined her for the first time, when I still remembered being able to fold sunlight and the hours that weren't filled with my feverish search for the white whale buzzed with an exhaustion that refused to leave no matter how much sleep I got. The cold was there then, too. 

I needed to move, to do _something_ \-- but I couldn't. 

I glared at my legs like they had personally betrayed me. 

Stupid body. Stupid Faeries, with their damnably specific bargains. Stupid me, for thinking I could outwit them. Stupid fire. Stupid M--

No. Wonderful Molly. Ridiculous, short-thinking, crazy, damaged, _fantastic_ Molly. Her only fault was thinking she could save everyone. And guess who had taught her that? Three guesses, first two don't count.   
It wasn't her fault. She hadn't known. Couldn't have known, not that the Mantle would pass to her brother, not that I would be restored to my exact circumstances before the bargain, with a penalty thrown in for wear and tear. 

 

Or she did know. 

 

Stars and stones, maybe she knew. Maybe they planned it. That could have-- that's precisely the kind of stupidly self-sacrificing, self-righteous, compassionate destruction I'd expect from a Carpenter.   
Because-- and Hell's bells, I should have thought of this earlier, but the pain and medication were fogging my mind-- it couldn't have been an accident. Not if it went to Daniel. Molly would have known, would have _had_ to have known, that my death would result in it passing to the nearest appropriate vessel, and it's not like those are just growing on trees nowadays. 

It was a plan. Had to have been. 

She'd decided, apropos of nothing, to _save_ me, and Daniel- for whatever reason- had helped. Maybe he had his own motived. God, I hoped he had his own motives. Better the stupidity of the 22 year old, making mischief with forces he did not understand, than an act of self-sacrifice on the part of someone so young that they couldn't truly understand how long 'forever' was. Hell, at that age, he still thought he was immortal. 

I said as much to Michael, when he came in to greet me and allow Maggie to say goodnight. 

He frowned. 

I flinched. From Michael, that's as good as a curse. 

"He's 22, Harry. Molly is 26. They're not children."

They were, though. I had been a detective already at that age, but-- that was different. The Carpenter children had been perfect. Sheltered. _Safe_. They shouldn't have to be bruised by the world. Hadn't their father done enough to win them a few breaks?

My thoughts must have shown, because the frown deepened. 

"We've been at war, Harry. For three long years now, it's been spilling over into the vanilla realm. You haven't noticed, or not as much as you would have if you were still practising, but it's getting darker out there each day.   
You were their hope, Harry. When you died, they were devastated-- everyone was devastated. And then you were alive, but useless to us. Their hope, to them their _last_ hope, was gone doing something they didn't understand, all while people they knew and grew up with were _dying_ , collateral damage in this war. They're not children anymore. They haven't been since you died the first time."

My throat went dry. I tried not to think about it, had tried to push the growing darkness in the mortal realm from my mind when Mab sent me on missions. I was doing as best I could, fighting the darkness where I met it, but I couldn't do as much as I should, not with half a foot and mind and will in faerie. 

I had failed them. I had dragged this city- _my_ city, the only place I had ever truly called home. There were a lot of things I was willing to die for. But I would kill for Chicago. She was _mine_ , I loved her, and I had nearly destroyed her. 

It's becoming kind of a pattern, to be honest. 

I tried to speak, to apologise, to beg for forgiveness or absolution or just ask for more morphine, but nothing came out. Michael took pity on me. 

"I don't blame you, Harry. You've done as much as the Lord could ask of any man-- more. But you made my children into soldiers, and then treated them as innocents."

"I... It was too dangerous," I said, stupidly, having finally found my voice. "I- Michael, Christ, Michael, I'm so sorry--"

He frowned at the curse, but waved away the apology impatiently, as though swatting a wasp. 

"You love them. I understand, Harry. Truly I do. And I don't really have any ground to stand on in this regard. I brought this war to the doorstep, as much as you did- I brought it into their _home_. And I will always regret it, but what's done is done, so I have to comfort myself with the knowledge that I armed them as well as I could, that I taught them as much as was safe for them to know and then more, once the war broke out. I must believe that their faith is strong and their determination unshaken. And I pray to the Lord to guide them in their time of darkness, as I have always done."

I exhaled shakily and felt my ribs protest. "--Did you know what they were going to do?"

He shook his head and snorted. "When do children tell their fathers anything?" 

He looked uncomfortable, and cleared his throat. "The point is, Harry. My children have sacrificed a lot for this war. Far too much. Don't you dare--" and here his voice turned rough with emotion, the only sign that he was not truly as   
confident in the situation as he claimed-- "Don't you _dare_ make their sacrifice for nothing, do you understand me? Don't you dare."

I smiled sardonically. "Heck of a choice, then. A healthy 22 year old for a crippled wizard. If I'm the cavalry, I hate to think what comes behind _me_."

He looked at me, his eyes shadowed. "Nothing, Harry. But you know that."

I did, but it didn't-- it didn't, _wouldn't_ work. Not now. 

"Michael," I said softly, "I can't fight like this."

He blinked, and leant heavily on his cane. With the other hand, he stroked his beard-- now more grey than brown, what had been happening while I was gone?-- and quirked his mouth. 

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Harry. You know that as well as I."

Right. Maybe we could fight evil together. Michael could hit them with his stick, and I could-- shout at them, or something, stars and stones, I couldn't even _sit up_ by myself right now, how would I ever fight. Stuff like that's for inspirational movies, not real life. 

If this was a movie, I would be several inches shorter and several inches wider, and Michael's hair would be brown and his stick long gone, and he wouldn't grimace when he walked. Molly would smile, really smile, not the half-grimace half-smirk she sported now. Murphy would have her job, and there would be no streaks of grey. Charity's eyes wouldn't be shadowed with fear and other people's nightmares. 

If this was a movie, a fantastical, eleventh hour cure would show up, and I would stand and fight and we would win, save the girl and the city and the human race, and afterwards we'd sit down for pizza and joke about our exploits, and there would be much feasting. 

If this was a movie, nobody would have nightmares. 

But I'm not Batman, and Molly isn't Robin, and Mab sure as hell ain't Catwoman. The Villains aren't crazy (except when they are) but have a logic so foreign, so incomprehensible as to be deadly. 

And in real life, sometimes the good guys lose, and it isn't dramatic. It's slow, with a city turning to the darker shades of grey day by day until all contrast is gone. 

"Harry?" Michael cleared his throat, and I jolted to attention. "Say goodnight to Maggie." 

His eyebrows did something complicated as he led her to the edge of the bed. 

"Hey, Maggie," I said awkwardly. Her dark hair had been washed, and hung down the back of her flannel nightgown in wet curls. 

"Ready for bed, kid?" _Do you even know who I am?_ I didn't ask. Have they told you about me, or am I just some guy you remember from your nightmares?

She nodded. 

I smiled. "That's good. You look cozy."

_'You look cozy?'_ What the hell was I saying?

She reached out and ran her small hand along the tubes that lead to my body. I tried not to flinch as the friction pulled the nasal cannula slightly. 

"You're hurt," she said simply.

I tried to smile again. "It's not as bad as it looks."

She shook her head. "You're hurt. Uncle Michael said. And I can tell, 'sides."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice rough. 

"Feels different. Not like you should. Darker."

I blinked. 

She frowned, obviously frustrated that I wasn't getting it. 

"Look," she said, dragging Michael closer to the bed and placing my hand on his arm. "Uncle Michael feels warm, and kinda yellow and big. You're all-- blue and grey and _cold_. It _hurts_." she said, her face tightening as   
she touched me again. 

 

She looked like she was going to cry, and I hastened to reassure her, though my head was spinning. She was too young, it couldn’t be, she was imagining—except. Except I had been her age, or close to it, but that had been different, I had been—  
alone. I had been alone. I had been an orphan, who needed to protect himself. There's a reason Maggie didn't manifest until she was 17. 

"Hey," Michael prompted gently, "Why don't you say goodnight, Maggie? It's past your bedtime."

She frowned, and bit her lip. Then, she inched forward, quick as a bunny, and placed a kiss on my cheek. 

"You should be better," she ordered. "Stop hurting. You make Aunt Karrin and Aunt Charity and Uncle Michael worried."

"You mean 'get better'," Michael corrected gently. 

She glanced at him, before turning her gaze back to mine, her expression clearly saying that it was the same thing. 

"I'll try, kiddo," I said. 

"Swear," she ordered. 

"On what?" I asked, half-jokingly. Probably a Bible. Couple of years with the Carpenters, a Bible was bound to be it. 

"Mama," she said quietly. 

I bit back a gasp, her innocent words punching a hole in my chest. 

"Do you--" I stopped myself. Of course she remembered her. She was her mother. Still, it had been a long time- almost half her life. “How- how much do you remember, Maggie?”

"I 'member her. I 'member you. I promised I would." 

I bit my lip, hard. That-- that meant something. And, me. She remembered me. She remembered Susan, which alone was something, but she remembered me, too. And she wasn't running away. 

"Okay, Maggie," I said softly. "I swear on your mama's memory that I will try to get better."

As I said it, I felt a strange tingle of will, which was ridiculous. Promises are important, but this didn't feel like an oath on my power, or on my honour- if anything, it felt like soulfire. 

...

Of course. 

I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted.

Faith is important. How many times do I have to remind myself that before I finally remember when it counts? An oath on a child’s faith. On a child’s faith in and love for her mother. That's about as binding as you can get. 

"G'night," she said after a moment, apparently satisfied. 

"'night, Maggie."

I opened my eyes to wave at her, but she was already gone. Michael, however, still stood in the doorway, a strange look on his face. 

"What?" I asked, too tired to be annoyed. 

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Then, he turned to the window. "Mister Toot!"

From outside the window, there was a chattering and a dim cacophony of light. Michael limped across the room to open the window, and several of the bright lights zoomed in, crashing onto the wooden floor with high-pitched screetches and coughs. 

From the chaos, Toot Toot emerged, his proud stance only slightly diminished by his bottle-cap armour.   
"Yes, Friend-of-the-Za-Lord?"

Michael blinked, then smiled. "You will watch over Harry tonight, right?"

Toot-Toot puffed out his chest. "We are the prime of the Za Lord's Guard. We will not abandon him in his time of need." A sharp whistle, and the lights separated themselves. Several small wyldfae- the kernels, if I remembered correctly- congregated in each corner of the room, casting a diffuse light. 

"Toot?" I asked, confused. Was I hallucinating?

"Yes, Za Lord?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"You must sleep! Do not worry, 'za lord, you will be safe with us." As if to make the point, he picked a sharp pencil up like a lance, and returned to a rough approximation of parade rest. 

"They're the ones who lead us to Undertown," Michael said quietly. "They never left your side."

Oh.

Michael smiled at the look on my face. "Goodnight, Harry."

Toot Toot flew up to the bed and stood on the headboard, trailing pixie dust as he did so. Well, Charity was going to be happy about _that_. Pixie dust is hell to get out of fabric, let me tell you. 

From the corner, someone began a tune that sounded like a lullaby but which experience had taught me was actually an incredibly vulgar drinking song about a young wyldfae lass who finds her lights have more than one-- anyway. 

It was beautiful, provided you didn't understand the lyrics. Added to the light they cast, it gave the room the feel of a campfire- a blast of warmth and comfort in an otherwise endless night.

Although, if you listened to the song, it changed to a campfire with Druids. Very creative with their synonyms for the human pudenda, those Druids.


End file.
